


Soon

by Ellionne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hanahaki Disease, Harry Needs a Hug, Harry-centric, Hogwarts Fourth Year, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Petunia Dursley's A+ Parenting, alright more like, but with a happy indication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29804331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellionne/pseuds/Ellionne
Summary: Life was good.But, of course, it couldn’t last - Harry had never been allowed nice things.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34
Collections: Tomarrymort Valentines Exchange 2021





	Soon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wiegenlied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiegenlied/gifts).



> **Do NOT repost, recreate or translate.**
> 
> Thanks to my beta [Sage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeuroWriter14/pseuds/NeuroWriter14) <3
> 
> Fair warning, I don't read Hanahaki (all the assumed unrequited feelings, all the angst - my poor heart x.x) but I tried to take a step out of my comfort zone and gave it my best shot - I'm even rather proud of the outcome, I think I finally managed some proper angst \o/
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think of it!

Cold sweat layered his neck, a shudder went down his spine, and his hand holding the slip of expensive parchment, besmirched by a single untidily scrawled word, shook dangerously. 

_Soon._

For as long as he could remember, Harry had always disliked Valentine’s Day.  
He used to simply because it was just another ‘special day’ he was being ignored on but he learned to loathe it even more when he entered the Wizarding World and suddenly people who never bothered to talk to him outside of Valentine’s Day gifted him small things _and expected something in return because of it_. Apparently, his father’s family was well known (as was its wealth and prestige). Even so, his feelings on the matter hadn’t been _too_ bitter, not until- 

To avoid getting lost in painful memories and to root himself in the here and now, Harry ignored the ominous message and instead focused on the package it had been attached to. 

Did he really want to open it? 

The shape betrayed its nature already at first glance and after reading the note, Harry dreaded to open the non-descriptive brown wrapping paper. He couldn’t estimate if it was sent by someone who took his forced participation in the Triwizard Tournament too much to heart and had sent it as a heralding of doom or if it was from someone with an exceptionally bad taste in gifts. 

Gifting flowers, in general, was already frowned upon but shoving an obvious reminder of the widely feared Hanahaki Disease into someone’s face on Valentine’s Day… the sender was either an insensitive fool without any decorum, wanted to guilt Harry into recuperating their misplaced affection or-

Harry choked on his breath when the unwrapped bouquet revealed to be made of an unusual but beautiful arrangement of red tulips and carnations, orange acacias, and carefully placed spots of brightness by yellow daffodils. On the surface, it was a perfect play on Harry’s Gryffindor sorting.

Harry hated it.

Hated, _hated_ , **_hated_** **_it_**.

He couldn’t breathe through the sudden lump in his throat, could barely see through the tears gathered in his eyes. _Who had sent him these flowers? Who could have known of-_

Harry felt the familiar itch to cough but he would be damned to show any more weakness in the hostile environment that Hogwarts had become once more to him. Since the day the Goblet of Fire had spat out his name and thus forced Harry into the tournament, the occupants of Hogwarts had just proved his aunt to be right again. As if _he_ hadn’t done the same before.

Harry was better off on his own.

In a deliberate flare of ‘accidental’ magic, the bouquet as well as the note burned up and turned to ash while Harry grabbed his bag and ran out of the hall, a hand covering his mouth, tears still prickling in his eyes. 

He would be the talk of the school again, just like in his second year when- 

Harry ducked into an unused classroom when he couldn’t hold back any longer, sealing the door behind him. His chest rattled by the effort of keeping somewhat quiet, his throat burned by the feel of _something_ rising up, and in a last attempt of just breathing through it, he eventually spat the offending bit of red pulp into his hand. 

He didn’t look at it, just vanished it tiredly before he additionally wiped his hands on his trousers to get the feeling of the wet and squishy mush off it. Harry wouldn’t have needed the bouquet as a reminder of the blasted flowers that had taken _him_ away. He saw them with increasing frequency, after all. 

The question was, who knew about it? Harry wasn’t exactly of the trusty sort, wasn’t acquainted with many. And even if he were, who would have the bad taste to rub his inevitable demise into his face in such a cruel way? 

No one should know that it didn’t matter if he died in the silly tournament or not, Harry wouldn’t come back for his fifth year anyways. 

It was only a matter of time until he-

__________

_It was curious._

_Harry had never thought Tom to be particularly artistic - casual handwriting on the verge of calligraphy aside - but here he was, staring down at impossible realistically drawn flower petals again._

_Tom, his friend trapped in a book, had recently picked up the habit of scattering them randomly over the pages while they were writing to each other. When Harry had first seen them, they had made him skittish._

_They reminded him of the disease that killed off the Unloved, so Good People wouldn’t be bothered by their unwanted affection or, even worse, their inappropriate behaviour._ _  
_ _They reminded him of the reason why Tom was his first and only friend._

_It had been a necessity, really. At first to protect himself but later - when the loneliness, the longing to belong, had eventually become too much and he had tried to reach out and make a friend regardless of his personal costs - to protect those that might have been his friends if it weren’t for the danger of the disease._

_But Tom was only a book. There was no way either of them could fall ill just as there was no way Aunt Petunia would find out about it and chastise Harry again for his selfishness and for putting others in danger._

_Nothing bad had ever happened by writing into a book, right?_

_So, Tom was his friend._

_Despite their age difference, he was already sixteen while Harry was twelve, he never let Harry feel unwanted or like a burden. He was patient when he helped Harry with his homework and explained even the most complicated concepts in a way that Harry could grasp them easily. It was a shame that Tom was trapped in a book, he would have made a great teacher._

_Then again, if he weren’t trapped in a book, Harry would have never allowed them to interact so much, enough to become friends. Harry would have kept his distance like he did with everyone else and would have never experienced the marvel that was a real friendship._

_And ‘real’ it was!_

_No matter if Tom was a boy trapped in a book, an echo of the memory of a boy or just an imagination of Harry’s lonely mind - Tom and their friendship felt real and it was all that mattered to Harry._

_Either way, Tom knew too many things, for Harry to be able to imagine him anyways. He could even talk with snakes! Harry could vividly remember Tom’s shock and delight when he found out Harry could also talk to them. It was shortly after that Tom had started with the flowers, come to think of it._

_And for some days now, Tom didn’t only draw them anymore! He had somehow managed to conjure them between the pages of his book, leaving them pressed for Harry to find. Harry couldn’t guess what kind of flowers the petals were from because they were just single red pieces with an occasional yellow or orange one in between but it was fun either way. Sometimes they were so many petals hidden between the pages that Harry could open the book with a quick push up in the air and watch them rain down like confetti. It was beautiful. And Tom went through the hassle just to make him laugh._

_Tom was the best friend possible, really._

_Although he_ did _make fun of Harry when he was told about the poem Harry had received for valentine. There was no way, Valentine’s Day could ever be worse than this particular year._

__________

On the day of the final task, Harry woke like he used to do after he dreamed of Tom - in a disconcerting jolt, with an aching heart and tears staining his face. 

Harry cherished it.

It had been so long since he’d dreamed about Tom, about the joy the other had brought into Harry’s lonely life. After the good laugh Tom had had over that cursed poem, it hadn’t taken long before the confetti-like petals were exchanged for pressed flowers. Harry still had the first batch hidden at the bottom of his trunk. No matter how much it hurt to think about Tom, to see his flowers - Harry couldn’t bring himself to part from them. 

Harry had been so delighted about receiving a tangible gift from a friend, something he had resigned himself to never experience, that he had thanked Tom in gushing happiness. And Tom had been so amused, so fond in his response - he had not even once let shine through what _gifting_ Harry these flowers did cost him. What it meant for him.

Looking back, Harry should have been more suspicious when Tom began to nudge him into making other friends. But Harry had always been stupid. He was so drunk of the feelings about his experience with Tom, the joys rooted in friendship, that he had forgotten everything his aunt had taught him. About the dangers of having friends, of loving and being loved. She had warned him again and again about caring for other people. Had warned him about falling incurable ill. 

But when Tom insisted on Harry making an additional friend, he complied. He wanted to make Tom proud. So he made a ‘friend’ in the one Gryffindor who was as outcast as him.  
Neville Longbottom was a quiet and unobtrusive boy just like Harry, they got along well. They began to eat together, partnering in classes and Harry would join Neville in the greenhouses where Neville was busy with his plants and Harry would write to Tom. 

Life was good.

But, of course, it couldn’t last - Harry had never been allowed nice things. 

Ironically it had been Neville, the friend Tom insisted Harry should make, that shattered the peace. 

He saw Harry taking freshly pressed flowers from the book and wondered where Harry had found them because they didn’t grow around Hogwarts. Naturally, Harry couldn’t let his thrice-damned curiosity rest and asked about the flowers - it would be interesting to know which kind of flowers Tom deemed fit to gift him, wouldn’t it? 

It had been _enlightening_ , that’s for sure.

Knowing the name of the flowers would have been enough for Harry but since Neville was interested in all aspects of herbology, he additionally knew about the meaning they bore. 

The prettily layered red Carnations that told about an aching heart and admiration, the orange Arcadia for concealed love that the red Tulips insisted to be true regardless. The Daffodil indicated for the love to be unequalled but also declared for the receiver to brighten the donor’s day. 

It wasn’t a difficult leap to comprehend their significance after that. To guess what they meant for Harry. What they meant for Tom. For them. 

After all, the reason why Harry hadn’t had any friends prior to Tom was the fear his aunt had instilled in him about the Hanahaki Disease. Although Harry, poor unloved orphan that he was, had never really expected to become the _cause_ for the disease taking root. How was it even possible? Tom was the most important person to him, he shouldn’t have gotten sick!

When Harry confronted Tom, he learned that Tom wasn’t the only one who had betrayed his trust. As it turned out, Harry’s love for his friend wasn’t enough to cure him - because Hanahaki could not be caused by an unrequited feeling of friendship like Aunt Petunia had stressed whenever Harry had tried to break free of his lonely existence. 

She used to play on his self prevention but when his small, isolated heart couldn’t take it anymore and he tried to reach out regardless of the consequences for him, she had changed tracks and made him fear the consequences for his potential friends - after all, what would be a loveless orphan like him be able to give in return for their kindness? 

It was kind of funny that in the end, Aunt Petunia had been right despite her lies. Harry’s friendship wasn’t enough to save Tom. Harry wasn’t enough, had been _too young_ \- as if he had ever been just a child. 

Tom had tried to console him, told him that he had known what was happening from the beginning but that it was worth it. That Harry was worth it. 

But Harry knew the truth. His desire for a friend would kill the only one he ever had. Neville was nice, they might have become real friends over time, but the knowledge of losing Tom let Harry fall back into his old reclusive habits. 

It was only when Tom - his writing on this particularly bad day almost illegible between all the drawn and pressed flowers - made Harry _vow_ to try and have a friend, that he relented. He didn’t want to, but how could he deny Tom? 

Tom, who admitted that he adored Harry for the ability to love him even though he was essentially just a memory trapped in a book - an adoration that caused Tom to open his heart to the extent Hanahaki could take its roots in the first place.  
That he had known from the beginning, how they weren’t equal in their affection for each other. That Harry was too young to experience the kind of true love that was required to free Tom from the disease. 

Tom, who admitted to having concealed his pains just so he could make Harry laugh and teach him a kind of joy neither of them had experienced before. To give him memories he could hold onto when Tom wouldn’t be there anymore for new ones.

Tom, who admitted that he used to fear death above all else but now feared for Harry to be left alone. That now, when his eventual death was near despite all the fail-safes he had previously thought to instil, his only regret was that _because of his foolish fail-safes_ he hadn’t been able to hold Harry, to soothe his loneliness, that he had just been there in spirit and words instead of in person. 

So even though Tom also admitted to being possessive enough that he would prefer to be the only person important to Harry, he made him promise to no longer listen to the poisoned words of his aunt, to not stay friendless. To try and gather people who would care about him, who he could care about. 

Harry didn’t want to but he couldn’t refuse Tom. Not when it was the only thing he had ever really asked of him. 

So, Harry, reluctantly, went back to his schedule with Neville, he even opened up a little bit more and made an effort to really befriend the shy boy as Tom encouraged him to do. 

And he continued to be friendly with Neville when the flowers eventually began to overpower Tom’s words, making them harder and harder to read. 

He continued to stay with Neville even when Tom’s calligraphy-like handwriting was entirely lost between the roots that, in the end - and overnight when Harry wasn’t watching, wasn’t there to say goodbye - entwined Tom’s book in a way that made it impossible to open it again. 

But Neville didn’t stay with Harry. 

His aunt had been right yet again - why would anyone ever want to stay with Harry? 

Neville had been a peaceful companion at his side all through their third year. Not a _friend_ like Tom, but someone Harry had learned to appreciate to have around. It had been enough. 

But Harry hadn’t been enough for Neville. 

When the Goblet spat out his name, when Hogwarts and Gryffindor turned on him - so had Neville. Harry knew it wasn’t personal, Neville never attacked him. He just ignored him to not end up in the middle of all the malice that Harry had to endure by his peers. 

It had been then, that Harry started to miss Tom the most. Of course, there was no single day Harry didn’t remember Tom in some way or another, but he had done his best to stay positive. To try and honour Tom’s dying wish. To be _happy,_ as foreign the concept might be to him. 

But then, when he was eventually alone again, with nothing to bring him joy but the bittersweet memories, Harry lost himself in them. 

He missed Tom so, so much, Neville's absence didn’t even hurt. It was inconsequential in the great scheme of things - after all, a fourteen-year-old in the Triwizard Tournament? Harry would die. So why bother and try to hold onto a false friend when he would be reunited with his real friend soon?

Tom would have never abandoned him. Tom would have probably even found a way to curse all those who hurt and ridiculed Harry, no matter if he was still trapped in his book. Tom would have supported Harry. He would have _believed_ Harry. 

Living in his memories of Tom as he was, the first coughed-up yellow petal came with no surprise. Harry welcomed the tangible reminder of Tom. It let him feel closer to Tom than he had since- 

_Since-_

In retrospect, Harry didn’t mind being entered into the tournament - what was there to lose in an event designed to kill children for entertainment? Instead, Harry was almost upset about the maze, or rather the whole tournament, being so easy to pass. 

Considering how unexpectedly well Harry had done so far, at least their flowers would make sure to reunite them in the end, wouldn’t it?

He had expected some more deadly tasks. After he had started coughing up petals of the same flowers that Tom had _gifted_ him, he had _hoped_ for more deadly tasks, had hoped for the assumed death trap of a tournament to maybe shorten his suffering with an early death. 

And yet, Harry was loath to admit that Aunt Petunia would probably be proven right _yet_ again: Harry would die in agony, suffocating on flowers just because he never listened to his aunt and couldn’t stay by himself. It was just his luck to fall in love with the memory of a forgotten boy already dead. A boy, who Harry hadn’t been able to love when it had mattered. A boy Harry had killed.

It was justice of a poetic kind.

Harry didn’t mind that either. 

It felt all so pointless.

Despite how well he had done with the tasks, Harry had honestly not believed a fourteen-year-old would be able to withstand the dangers of the Triwizard Tournament. 

But here he was, standing in front of the Triwizard Cup at the centre of the maze. Only one arm length away from _winning_ the Triwizard Tournament.

Harry could hear Diggory making a ruckus behind him where he tried to fight off a giant spider. He knew he could help the older boy but what was the point? If he would just take the Cup, the task with all its dangers would be over and Harry could hide and cough up in peace the next flower like he had ached to do for half an hour already - but he didn’t fancy an audience for his suffering. He still hadn’t been able to figure out who knew about his _condition_ and additionally possessed the malice to send him matching flowers as a threat. 

It wouldn’t matter for much longer. 

Harry had long since passed the stage of petals, of small flowers. He was coughing up fully developed flowers for two weeks now, their passage eased by his blood. It was only a matter of time before the roots would spread. The anniversary was fast coming up, maybe he wasn’t forced to suffer through a second one.

Harry reached for the Cup and-  
passed out as soon as his knees hit the ground, the brutal force of a portkey too much for him to handle in his weakened state. 

  
  
  
  
  


Harry woke up to the smell of sweet spring and old books, a steady thrum in his ear, and a soft touch on his face, tracing his eyebrow. He was engulfed by warmth and a sense of peace he couldn’t comprehend. 

_“I can touch you now.”_

Harry’s eyes flew open and he was faced with a view that he only ever had seen on the rare occasion when Tom had shared a memory with him. 

Tom was even more beautiful than Harry remembered. His sharp features only softened by the smile that - in stark contrast to the ones Harry had seen in the memories - reached his eyes, made them glow despite their dark colour. His usually carefully styled hair was tousled where his head rested against the headboard, Harry securely held against his firm chest. 

Harry opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but all that left was an embarrassing choked-off sound which turned into an all too familiar coughing fit that made tears spring into his eyes. He rested his forehead against Tom’s shoulder and worked through the strain, tried to breathe through the fit while Tom’s warm hand stroked his back in calming circles.

When Harry felt like the worst was over he pulled back, ready to apologise for the mess he made, but-

But there was no flower, not a single petal or even a drop of blood to see on Tom’s crisp white shirt.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ngl, if the request hadn't entailed 'Angst with a happy ending' I'd probably ended it after Harry passed out. :D  
> ________
> 
> I have [tumblr](https://ellionne.tumblr.com/) now. Feel free to check it out and talk to me or something. :D


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